David's Baja Journal: Crossing the border at Tijuana

Monday, 4/5

As I left Ensenada, there were low clouds and patches of misting rain.

Rather than crossing the border in Tecate as before, I decided to cross at Tijuana. I had avoided Tijuana before because of all the stories you hear about long waits and drug violence. But this time, because my trip had been so trouble-free, because I wanted to see the scenic coastal highway to Tijuana, and because this route was a bit shorter, I decided to try Tijuana.

The highway between Ensenada and Tijuana was a four-lane toll-road up to US interstate standards. And the route along the top of high bluffs above the Pacific was truly spectacular. Once I entered Tijuana, traffic flowing towards the border became intense. Then it stopped to a crawl several blocks from the border, and divided into many lanes. Here sidewalk vendors, all with licenses hanging from their necks, plied the lines of waiting cars--selling hats, t-shirts, tacos, and all the usual ticky tacky.

A grubby, grim building several stories high stretched over most of the entry lane booths. It had the atmosphere of the Port Authority bus terminal in NY City, only more grim and grimy. There was no friendly "Welcome to the US" sign, only a sign that this was the border crossing. When I reached what looked like a toll both, my photos was snapped automatically, and a guard checked my passport. I was in the lane labeled RVs, and they said I needed a special inspection.

But, incredibly, there was no place for me to pull over. So I had to back and scrape to get into a position bordering where all the cars were exiting from their customs booths, amid some puddles. Then I had to wait for a while, as hundreds of cars streamed steadily past. Finally, one guard went into the trailer, then another--both without wiping their boots, and tracking footprints in. Now this was in contrast to six Mexican Army checkpoints, where nearly all wiped their feet, and one soldier even took my whisk broom as he exited and swept out the entryway.

I waited a bit more, till finally they brought up a dog, who was led inside to sniff for drugs. While the dog was in, the first guard chatted me up, as they always do, I think to check if you seem nervous or odd. He explained that they couldn't be too careful--and I wouldn't be able to believe what comes through there. He said just last week, an older woman came through in a RV, the whole floor of which was loaded with drugs.

As you exit the border area, you go through some narrow lanes with electronic signs, and other signs saying to "obey signals--severe tire damage." This means that the authorities have one last crack at you, if they change their minds. If they do decide to stop your departure, they raise those tire-slashing barriers. "Welcome to the US--your tires are toast." Nevertheless, the trip through the border had taken only about half an hour, during mid-morning on a Monday.

I've seen the border, and all the surveillance, in a number of places. It's a strip of police state, a new iron curtain longer than the old one, a cancer on our tradition of hospitality and welcome to immigrants. When you visit the Ellis Island immigrant museum in New York harbor, then see the reality of our border today, there's no connection. The ideals expressed at Ellis Island have been deep-sixed by our dysfunctional congress and ham-handed bureaucracy.

Mexicans come to the US only for the opportunity to work--to do jobs Americans no longer have the stomach to do. Mexicans love their own rich culture and nurturing communities of friends and extended families. They wouldn't leave Mexico if they didn't have to. Somehow, there should be an neighborly, orderly, and legal process for Mexicans to visit the US and do what they want to do,-and what we want them to do--which is to work.

The contrast at the border between the two landscapes is stark. It's much more crowded on the Mexican side. Then there's a sort of no-man's land, then just the usual American countryside, with scattered residential developments and light industry or agriculture.

In Mexico, there's less emphasis on outward appearances, probably for lack of funds. In Baja, there's trash nearly everywhere. In America, we prefer to keep up appearances and instead throw our trash into the atmosphere--dumping the most per capita greenhouse gasses, compared to any other nation. At least Mexico's trash doesn't threaten the global climate, as does our unseen trash.